


As You Are

by QueenOfThePiccolos (Tgaret990)



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Phantom of the Opera (2004)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassin's Creed Fusion, Assassins vs. Templars, BAMF Erik, BAMF Madame Giry, Christine is just caught in the middle of this whole mess, Don Juan the way it SHOULD HAVE BEEN DAMMIT!!!, Elements borrowed from Assassin's Creed: Syndicate, F/M, Family Feuds, Foul Play, Marriage Proposal, My First Work in This Fandom, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Raoul is NOT an a-hole here, The Paris Brotherhood, occasional reference to Leroux's book, retains much of canon except Christine chooses Erik from the start, saving the ones you love, tweaking of scenes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-21 22:53:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17651360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tgaret990/pseuds/QueenOfThePiccolos
Summary: The death of Gustave Daae leaves a reluctant Erik as leader of the Paris Brotherhood, resident Opera Ghost of the Opera Populaire, and guardian Angel of Music to Christine. The war between Assassins and Templars escalates, until Christine is finally exposed to the world of power, secrecy, darkness, betrayal, and death her father fought so hard to keep her from. She learns that not everything is as it seems as she struggles to finally end the feud between her and Raoul's families, all while chasing her dream of becoming Prima Donna and falling in love with a man just as lost as she is.The events of the 2004 movie with an Assassin's Creed twist.





	As You Are

**Author's Note:**

> Aside from the ending 1800-ish words, I'm pretty satisfied with how this turned out. I hope you guys enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing this!

As You Are

Prologue

 

A/N: ~Started Sept. 23rd, 2018, finished Feb. 3rd, 2019.~ This is a headcanon that suddenly made itself know one day. I’d been humming TPOTO songs all day, and I was thinking about how Erik seemed to know an awful lot about killing and trap setting and sneaking. He had to have learned all of this somewhere, and then I thought about the books and how he’d, at some point, found himself in Persia as the **_assassin_ ** of a shah—BAM! Assassin’s Creed AU was born. So, here’s my second attempt at a post-after-finished fic. As with my Blade-Avengers crossover, I’ll post just the prologue and mark it complete **for now** , but expect weekly updates when I’m completely finished. Based off of Assassin’s Creed: Syndicate (I know that’s in London, but oh well) and a little of Assassin’s Creed: Unity. I’m probably going to rewrite the backstories of several characters, and this fic’ll be based mostly off the 2004 movie with a few details from Leroux making an appearance every now and then. I’m so nervous about posting, but I’m too excited not too, so without further adieu, enjoy!

 

    Erik saw red as he disposed of every unfortunate Templar in his way, one goal in mind: reach Gustave Daae. He knew something was wrong the moment they’d arrived at the estate. He had, begrudgingly, promised Gustave to stay by the carriage, to leave negotiations with Philbert De Chagny to him. No matter how much he wished to use the shadows and cover of night to his advantage to keep a closer eye on things, a promise was a promise. Still, how could he be comfortable leaving his mentor, one of his most trusted friends, alone with the leader of the Templar Order?

 

    He had driven their carriage to the estate, hood pulled low over his face. Gustave had been told to come alone, but Erik refused to let him go without him. They had come to the decision to have Erik drive the carriage, face hidden under his hood and the shadow of night, waiting outside for his return. That had been over two hours ago, and Erik was becoming anxious. Concentrating, his Eagle Vision picked up on the two of them conversing in de Chagny’s office, both enjoying drinks as conversation remained civil, almost friendly. They even shared a laugh, which only served to deepen the pit of worry in his chest. It was hard to believe that before the two had taken up leadership of opposing sides in this war between Assassins and Templars they had been the closest of friends. The two guards at the estate’s front doors raised eyebrows at his gaze rising to the third story window, but said nothing.

 

Then, things took a turn for the worse.

 

    Erik watched in shock as Gustave collapsed to the floor, glass shattering as it slipped from his hand, which flew to his throat as he choked on the drink threatening to come back up. He immediately knew what was happening and, without thinking, leapt down from the carriage, sprinting to the front door, vision back to normal. The two guards shouted warnings, but Erik paid them no heed, bursting through the doors and startling the maids, butlers, and servers still working. When he felt two pairs of arms try to grab him, he whirled around, slitting both their throats with his hidden blades. He watched them fall to the ground, the sound of gurgling and choking causing a raging fire within him to flare to life. One murderous look from him sent everyone else in the room scurrying as far away from him as they could. With a short and threatening warning to tell no one of his presence there that night, he quickly continued into the estate, the sound of hurried footsteps and outraged shouts greeting his ears as he made his way towards the first flight of stairs. Several Templars appeared to bar his way and he felt his fury grow. The more time he wasted slaughtering those foolish enough to stand in his way, the less time he had to save Gustave!

 

    Vision red and eyes flashing, he launched himself into the crowd of Templars with a blood-curdling scream, who were surprised at his speed. Almost faster than the eye could keep up, Erik had his hidden blades sunk into the throats of two, throwing knives in the heads of another two, and his sword thrust into the gut of the last one as he pulled his blades from the pair of corpses. His trip through the second floor proved similar, with several more Templars rushing at him before he could reach the next flight of stairs. They all met the same violent fate.

 

    Finally, he found himself on the third floor, a group of at least ten standing between him and De Chagny’s office at the end of the hall. He snatched two smoke bombs from his belt, hurling them into the crowd and using his Eagle Vision to navigate around them. When he reached the office’s door, he found his gloved hand shaking as it reached for the knob, whether from fear for his friend’s life or anger at the one who’d betrayed him he didn’t know. He slowly turned the knob, finding the door, blessedly, unlocked. The sight that greeted him reignited the fire within that had momentarily calmed upon reaching his destination.

 

    De Chagny gently held Gustave on the floor in front of his desk, daring to have tears in his eyes, whispering apologies. They both looked up at the sound of the door opening, de Chagny scrambling away in horror at the man by the door. It was only then, when he heard the pained whisper of, “Oh, Erik,” that he realized he must have lost his mask in the chaos behind him. Erik’s eyes darted to Gustave’s pale, shivering form, looking up at him in apology and pain. His eyes then fell on a terrified de Chagny, who had taken several steps back. Erik advanced menacingly, not prepared for him to crash through the window and disappear into the night. Determined not to let the traitor get away, he made for the shattered window before he felt a weak hand grasp his forearm. “Wait,” Gustave told him gravely. Erik stopped and knelt by his mentor, anger fading and being rapidly replaced with worry. “Philbert is n-not to blame for this. H-He—

 

    “Save your strength,” Erik told him, carefully lifting him off the ground. The sound of thundering footsteps not far behind him spurred him into action, eyes falling on the shattered window de Chagny had escaped through just moments before. “Do you trust me?” he asked quickly.

 

    “With my life,” Gustave answered him confidently, without hesitation. With a nod and a deep breath, Erik sprinted for the window and leapt just as shots rang out behind him, one narrowly missing his shoulder as he and Gustave plummeted down from the estate. A pair of thick bushes cushioned their fall, though Erik felt pain shoot through his back as he took the rest the impact. Gustave winced with a jolt. Erik got to his feet, carrying him as fast as he could towards the carriage he’d left there. Gingerly setting Gustave down inside, he clambered back up into the driver’s seat, throwing his hood back up and whipping the reigns with a loud, _“Hyah!”_ as more shots rang out, this time from the estate grounds. They all missed, leaving bullet holes in the otherwise pristine grounds as the carriage rumbled away from the estate, the sound of hooves echoing through the night.

 

XxX

 

    Madame Giry was startled out of sleep by frantic knocking at her door. She quickly got out of bed, stumbling slightly from grogginess, opening her door to find one of her ballet girls, shaking and nervous, waiting for her.

 

    “Forgive me for the late hour, Madame, but Monsieur Phantom—

 

    “Where is he?” Madame Giry questioned in alarm, fearing for the safety of the man she considered her brother.

 

    “He said he would be heading for his home. He wished to see you as soon as possible,” replied the girl quietly, not looking at her. Madame Giry nodded and dismissed the girl, closing the door and putting on more proper attire before venturing to the passage to Erik’s home via her room’s floor length mirror. Why he would come to the Opera Populaire at this time of night, especially when he told her he was to accompany Monsieur Daae on official business, she hadn’t the slightest idea, but it must have been urgent to not instead head for headquarters not ten minutes further. Quickly navigating the dark, winding passages below the opera house, she found the switch on the top left side of another mirror, emerging from the passageway behind it into the dimly lit home before her. She heard movement from one of the bedrooms and headed in that direction. She gasped at the sight that met her.

 

    Gustave Daae lay unconscious, pale and sickly looking, in a scarcely used bedroom, clothes covered in blood, Erik hovering uncertainly by him. Erik turned at the sound of her footsteps, relief flooding his otherwise panicked eyes. She was immediately at his side, taking hold of one of his terribly shaking hands, thumb rubbing over a knuckle comfortingly. In a rare show of vulnerability, he enveloped her tightly in his arms, clinging to her as if his life depended on it. He was in one of his suits, she noticed, instead of his dark Assassin’s garments, and it was a few long minutes of tense silence, their shaky breaths the only sound in the room, before she could pull back and question him about the situation.

 

    “Forgive me, Antoinette. I… I didn’t know where else to go. The Opera Populaire was the closest location I could reach where I would be able to treat him.” He gestured to the bedside table that saw several ingredients and vials strewn, along with a cup of still steaming water. Her gaze once again fell on Gustave, on his furrowed brow and labored breathing.

 

    “What has happened?” An anger she hadn’t seen from him in many years crossed his face before it was gone, replaced with defeat as he left her arms and began pacing in front of the bed.

 

    “Gustave was to meet with de Chagny, alone, but I refused unless I could accompany him there. The two held civil conversation for hours until Gustave collapsed; he had been poisoned.” She shut her eyes in despair as he continued. “I fought my way to him, spilled the blood of any Templar who _dared_ stand in my way and… He got away.” He stopped pacing then, guilt clouding his tone. “He got away and there was nothing I could do about it. Had I chased after him, sent him **straight** to Hell where he belongs, Gustave would surely have perished before we could return. Instead, we escaped, and I brought him here so that I might brew him an antidote.” He observed the man slowly suffering in the bed. “He no longer has a fever, but I don’t know if it’s truly helping him. Only time will tell.”    

 

    “You are doing all you can,” she reassured him.

 

    “But it is not enough! Surely people will notice the disappearance of one of Paris’ most beloved musicians. And I doubt the Brotherhood will take kindly to the news of their leader near death, being watched over by _the Phantom_.” He spat out the moniker as if it were cursed. He knew the Brotherhood had never really accepted him into their ranks, didn’t consider him one of them. Though they knew of his skill and his reputation outside of France, maybe even respected him, they did not trust him, for how could they trust a man who never showed his face, who hid behind a mask and listened to none except Gustave Daae himself?

 

    “The Brotherhood will accept that you are caring for him here whether they like it or not,” Madame Giry assured him firmly. “I will deliver the message to them personally.”

 

    “Antoinette, you don’t have to—

 

    “I will deliver the message and notify Monsieur Khan of the situation.” She laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “I have no doubt he will recover quickly in your care.” She finally laid eyes on his discarded equipment. His sword and hidden blades were covered in dried blood, painted a dark crimson. His earlier clothes—a dark leather coat that reached the top of his boots from the back, but looked like a waistcoat from the front, with a leather hood, a dark shirt, dark pants, a sturdy silver belt with the Assassin’s symbol as its buckle, dark leather boots, and dark cape with the Assassin’s symbol emblazoned on its front in silver, its back a deep red—were carelessly piled together, bloodstained; his other pouches, sheathes, and smaller weapons were tossed haphazardly beside them. When she looked to him, she looked at the blood splattered across his unmasked face, caked on his still shaking hands, matted in his sweaty blonde hair, which was sticking to his forehead; his sapphire eyes were full of too many warring emotions and exhaustion. She gently cupped his deformed cheek and he leaned into her touch with a sigh. “Clean yourself up and get some rest. I will stay the night and ensure his condition doesn’t worsen.” Her tone, while caring, left no room for argument, and so he reluctantly left the room as Madame Giry silently pulled up a chair by Gustave’s bedside.

 

    While she had no doubt that he would recover, in time, it was not his health she feared for. His daughter, Christine, would wonder where he was. With tensions mounting between the Assassins and Templars, it was getting harder and harder to conceal this world from her. It was upon Gustave’s request that Christine be kept privy to the knowledge of his other life, for her safety. He didn’t want her mixed up in such a violent, cruel world, or, God forbid, ask to become a part of it. He would never forgive himself if any harm came to Christine because of his life with the Assassins, couldn’t even bear the thought; neither could she, as a matter of fact. What, then, would she tell her tomorrow?

 

Meanwhile…

 

    A strapping young man rode urgently to his family’s home, springing from his horse as it came into view. “Father!” Philippe de Chagny, the eldest of Philbert’s children, called out as he swiftly entered the estate. He made for his father, seated in a chair borrowed from another room, looking dazed and unfocused, staring at nothing in particular. “What’s going on? What’s…” His question died in his throat when he saw the carnage from the earlier attack, the smell of blood and death assaulting his nose. Bodies and blood left a trail up the stairs of the estate’s first floor, and their servants were still cowering in the corner, refusing to speak of what had happened. “Dear God,” he whispered in disbelief. “Who is responsible for this?”

 

    “Not who, Philippe. What.” Philippe looked to his father in confusion, but the haunted look he received was more than enough of an explanation.

 

    “Was it… _Him?_ ” he asked cautiously. Who else was capable of such violence, of disposing of fifteen well trained Templars with ease, of scaring a man who’d seen almost everything, spat in Death’s face his fair share of times, into an almost catatonic state? The Templars had only heard tales of the Phantom, for none who encountered him face to face lived to tell of who he was or what he looked like. All they knew was that he was like a living shadow, able to blend into darkness as if he were a part of it, the only warning of his presence perhaps the swish of a cloak.

 

    “I don’t know, but…” He shook his head, face in his hands. “I never meant to harm Gustave. I had no intention of… Had I known the glass was poisoned, I wouldn’t have—

 

    “Do not blame yourself. Something was bound to happen eventually, father. Your friendship with the Daae’s wouldn’t have been able to last.” He looked up to his son, whose tone was sympathetic, but whose expression was unreadable. He seemed lost in thought.

 

    “Are you alright, Philippe?” he asked quietly. His son shook his head and waved his hand absentmindedly.

 

    “I arrive home to find you shaken and terrified, to find good men supposedly slaughtered by a beast mothers tell their children about at night, with no leads on the whereabouts of Gustave Daae or any accomplices he may have had that got him to safety. Of course I’m not alright! My only consolations are your safety and the fact that Raoul is away for the weekend. That should give us enough time to clean everything up before he arrives in the afternoon.” Philippe sighed at the last statement. Raoul was away for the weekend, staying in Paris with some of his most trusted Templars on a visit to Christine. That Daae girl… She was beginning to complicate things greatly. The only reason Raoul hadn’t been introduced into the Templar life was because of his friendship to her, to keep both of them away from this life of betrayal and death. It was also one of the main reasons his father and Gustave Daae had still been on good terms, until tonight, of course, unless the wretched man lived to see the light of day once again.

 

    “Yes, I suppose it will,” Philbert replied tiredly. Philippe released another sigh, offering his father a hand.

 

    “I will send for others to take the places of those we lost here tonight, and for a mortician. Our brothers will not have fallen in vain, father; I swear it.” His father took the offered hand, and Philippe helped him to his feet. “Now, perhaps we should retire for the evening.”

 

XxX

 

    Christine and Raoul found themselves up early, playing with a few props left out from the last performance at the Opera Populaire. She often spent much time there, Madame Giry being a good friend of her father’s, and the place bringing her closer to his world of music. Raoul, never wanting to be away from Christine’s side, happily accompanied her throughout the opera house, listening to tales about her father’s performances, the magic of an opera production, singing silly songs they made up together, running through the many halls and large rooms. Laughing freely, they ran past a few stagehands who were also up early, not noticing the disapproving looks they gave the two of them. Raoul was currently chasing Christine with a fake sword, a cape much too long for his eleven year old frame trailing behind him. The two were so consumed in their game that Christine didn’t notice Madame Giry until she, quite literally, ran into her. Raoul was quick to help Christine to her feet, and the two bowed their heads in shame as the Madame addressed them.

 

    “I have told you both time and time again that the stage props are not toys to be played with,” she began sternly. “They are for our productions, not for children. And what of the guards for our young de Chagny?”

 

    “They’re back in the theater, by the stage, I think. That’s where they last saw us, Madame,” Raoul told her quietly, not daring to meet her gaze.

 

    “It’s no fun when they have to watch us, Madame,” Christine tried to protest. “They’re always looking at me funny and they won’t let Raoul out of their sight!”

 

    “His father hired them to keep him safe, Christine. How can they do that if he is halfway across the opera house from them?”

 

    “But he **is** safe,” Christine insisted. “We’re here in the opera house, not outside in the streets. Who could hurt him here?”

 

    “One never knows where danger might lie, Christine. You would do well to remember that, both of you,” she stressed.

 

    “Yes, Madame,” the two chorused. It was then that one of Raoul’s guards finally found them, looking slightly out of breath.

 

    “Forgive me for interrupting, Madame Giry, but young Raoul must return to the estate today.” Raoul and Christine wore matching looks of despair.

 

    “But must I, sir? Surely I could stay just a little longer?” he pleaded. The guard shook his head.

 

    “I’m afraid not. Your father was adamant you return before the evening, and we have a few hours ride ahead of us. Now, say goodbye to the miss so we can go.” Christine looked almost more upset than Raoul, who pulled her in for a tight embrace with a sad smile.

 

    “Fear not, Little Lotte. It won’t be long before we see each other again.” She smiled slightly at the nickname, and nodded. He took her hand, pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles as he departed, leaving the cape and fake sword behind. With one last wave, she watched him go before turning to Madame Giry, a question in her eyes.

 

    “Where’s Papa, Madame?” she questioned, and Madame Giry tried to keep her true emotions from showing as she answered.

 

    “His business is keeping him away for longer than usual, Christine. He won’t be back for at least a few more days, maybe a week. His work turned out to be a bit more… Involved than usual.”

 

    “Oh,” Christine replied, disappointed. It had been a long time since her father had left for several days. In those instances, he usually returned incredibly weary and reclusive, until he finally seemed to return to normal after a few days time. She had hoped to see her father today, to show him the tune she’d finally learned on her violin after many weeks of practice, the tune she’d begun singing along with while she played. “Will he be alright?” Madame Giry hesitated in her response.

 

    “In time, of course,” she decided on. “I’m sure whatever’s keeping him away has him very busy indeed.” _Busy fighting for his life,_ she thought to herself sadly. “I will come find you when he returns,” she promised. This seemed to lift Christine spirits somewhat and she nodded. More time to practice then! With a curtsy, she gathered up the props she and Raoul had been playing with and scurried off to find the stagehands. Madame Giry let out a sigh of relief. The curiosity of the seven year old remained the same as it had always been, and she was grateful. She had no idea what she would tell Christine once she was of age and more than capable of finding out answers herself. For now, she would keep her from the other world.

 

For now.

 

XxX

 

    Gustave groaned as the world swam back into focus, his eyes slowly opening to reveal the underground home Erik had built for himself so many years ago. His entire body felt sore and his head ached, even in the low light. He found any sort of movement difficult, and it took all his effort just to lift his arms and push himself into a sitting position. He was panting from the effort, regretting his efforts as the world span, shutting his eyes as nausea rose within him.

 

    “You’re awake,” a relieved voice sounded from the room’s doorway. Gustave’s head snapped in the direction it came from and he winced from the action. Erik stood in the doorway, masked, wig in place, a full cup and bowl held in his hands. “It looked as if you might sleep until the end of your days.”

 

    “And I have you to thank that I won’t,” he rasped before coughing at the dryness of his throat. Erik hurried forward, setting down the bowl, helping him drink the cup of hot tea in small mouthfuls.

 

    “The poison was slow to leave your body, even with my antidote. I don’t know how much lingering damage it may have caused,” Erik told him quietly, averting his eyes now. “Forgive me. I should have been there for you.”

 

    “You did what I asked, Erik. You are not at fault for what happened that night.”

 

    “But I am! I could have stopped him. I could have—

 

    “Believe me when I say that Philbert had nothing to do with my poisoning.” He held up a hand as Erik began to protest. “I know you hate him, Erik, but no man is a good enough actor to feign that look of absolute shock and terror.” His mind flashed briefly back to that night.

 

     _Gustave felt as if acid coursed down his throat as he finished swallowing his wine, aware too late of the treachery Philbert had just committed. Poison. How could he not see this coming? Clutching his throat, choking and sputtering, he faintly heard his glass shatter as it slipped from his hand and he fell from his chair, landing heavily on the floor. He was aware of Philbert’s presence beside him, lifting him up so that his head was cradled on his lap._

 

_“Gustave, *vieil ami, what has befallen you? How did this happen?” He observed the horrified look on his friend’s face as it seemed to dawn on him. Gustave felt a deep stab of betrayal pierce his heart. “Gustave, I swear on my life I had nothing to do with this!” He spoke when he felt some of the pain subside from his throat._

 

_“I lay here dying without another soul knowing where I am or why I left Paris. There will be no one to witness my death, save you. What am I to think of the situation, Philbert? I think we both knew this day would come.” Philbert shook his head._

 

_“It will, but that day is not today.” He shook his head again in despair. “Look at me, Gustave. Look me in the eye and tell me I am lying! I had nothing to do with this! I would never! You know I would never. Please…” He didn’t seem to notice the tear that fell from his eye, but it certainly didn’t escape Gustave’s notice, and he knew then that what he heard was the truth._

 

 _“I believe you,” he whispered, grimacing as a wave of pain wracked him. A messy string of I’m sorry’s and forgive me’s from Philbert followed. He felt both relief and a great sadness knowing his friend was innocent in the matter. Who, then, had orchestrated this?_  

 

    He shook his head, memory fading as he came back in the present. “I felt something was wrong the moment we arrived; I shouldn’t have been so careless… Nevertheless, Philbert is not responsible for my poisoning. If anything, I believe it was made to look like him. For what reason, I do not know, but there is something else going on here.”

 

    “I trust your judgement, mentor, but I’m—

 

    “We’ve been over this, Erik. You may call me Gustave. Actually, I prefer it. And do take off that mask. I’m sure Antoinette and I are the only two who will be down here for the time being.” With a sigh, Erik removed his mask and set it on the bedside table, baring his deformed face to the man who had shown him compassion many years ago. Gustave smiled warmly at him. “There we are. I know that mask gets uncomfortable, and I want to be able to address you fully. Now, how long have I been here?” At this, Erik hesitated to answer. Gustave sighed, resigned. “How many days?” he asked instead.

 

    Again, Erik hesitated, before he answered, “Three.” He watched Gustave pale in alarm. “Antoinette has told Christine that business would have you held up until the end of the week. We did not know when you would wake, let alone be able to stand and walk about.”

 

    “She’ll be worried sick,” Gustave murmured in concern.

 

    “She will not have cause to worry if you rest. You will not recover if you’re too worried to sleep and let your body heal, mentor.” He heard him sigh in exasperation at the title. Erik grabbed the bowl he’d set aside earlier, still full of steaming soup. Picking up the spoon he’d brought with it, he helped feed Gustave until he was satisfied, then went about brewing another vial of an antidote before Gustave spoke up again.

 

    “Thank you, Erik,” he told him. Erik paused his actions, not looking at him.

 

    “I owe you my life several times over. I could never forgive myself if I didn’t try to save yours.”

 

    “Still, thank you for being there when I needed you.” Erik looked at him then, and Gustave had never seen his eyes so serious and certain.

 

    “I will always stay by your side, no matter the consequences.”

 

XxX

 

    It was another two days before Gustave was well enough to leave Erik’s home, and Christine was overjoyed beyond belief when she found herself in her father’s arms later that morning. He held her close, tears in his eyes at the thought that, barely a week ago he could have been lost to her for good. “Oh, papa! I was so worried! Are you alright?” Christine asked him in concern, pulling back, but her concern was gone the moment she saw him smile.

 

    “I have never felt more happy to see you, my child. Forgive me for worrying you and being gone so long.” She grinned, overjoyed to see her father being his usual self after such a long absence.

 

    “Oh!” she exclaimed before running off in excitement. Antoinette and Gustave shared a smile, and when she returned it was with her violin in hand. “I wanted to play you something. I’ve been working on it for a really long time!”

 

    She set her violin in playing position, bow poised over the strings, and began to play a familiar Swedish tune that made Gustave utter a loving, _“Oh,”_ under his breath. He and her mother would sing that tune to her every night before bed, and it had been so long since he’d heard it that he was momentarily frozen in awe. When had she begun putting this together? And when she began to sing! The heads of any passing by them in the opera house turned as Christine’s beautiful voice floated throughout the hallway. It was as if they were all entranced by the sound of her voice, and perhaps they were. When she finished she lowered her violin, looking to her father with a nervous smile. She once again found herself crushed in an embrace, not even noticing the applause her audience was giving her. “That was absolutely beautiful, Christine,” he whispered lovingly, the crowd that had gathered around them dispersing with soft smiles on their faces.

 

XxX

 

    Erik had never heard such a beautiful voice before, and from one so young as Christine! Her technique wasn’t perfect and her diction could be better, but never before had such a pure, angelic tone met his ears. He had been leaving through one of his many secret passages, a smile tugging at his lips at the sight of Gustave reuniting with his daughter. He last saw her running off to get something, but stopped in his tracks when she began to sing. He returned to where he had been watching them before and saw a great deal many people gathered around her, entranced and mesmerized by the words flowing from her. She seemed lost in the music, swaying with the notes of her violin, looking relaxed and free-spirited, completely in her element. It wasn’t until she stopped playing and found herself in her father’s arms again that Erik realized he was crying.

 

    A single tear slid down his masked cheek from the pure emotion of her performance, but he turned away before he could do something foolish, like emerge from the wall and tell her these things himself. He and Antoinette would be leaving soon anyway to accompany Gustave to the Assassins, who were growing more and more impatient for word on their leader’s condition. Once back in his home, he changed into his Assassin attire and made his way back up to the opera house, hidden in the shadows of the hallway outside of Madame Giry’s room. He made his presence known when she emerged dressed in traveling attire, and the two walked together to the back entrance of the opera house, where Gustave was waiting for them.

 

    “Christine is off with Meg, no doubt getting into trouble,” she told him with a smirk, and he smiled slightly, but it was strained, almost seeming forced; something was clearly weighing on his mind, Erik noticed immediately.

 

    “What troubles you?” he asked in concern, and Gustave sighed as they walked to the carriage awaiting them outside.

 

    “When I tell the Brotherhood of what transpired at the estate, they will most likely insist upon escalating the war now that a blatant attempt on my life has been made. They would invite grave danger to the streets of Paris, and that is something I fear will be unavoidable when the conversation comes to pass.”

 

    “Then we will simply have to make them see reason,” Erik replied automatically.

 

    “And how do you plan on doing that?” Madame Giry questioned. “They are reasonable people, yes, but even they would deny a truth such as this with evidence staring them right in the face. You will not be able to convince them of de Chagny’s innocence easily, if at all.”

 

    “I fear Antoinette is right, my friend.” Erik made to protest, but Gustave shook his head, and he fell silent, settling into the carriage’s driver’s seat as the other two climbed in the back. “They will see our efforts as an attempt by me to cling to the friendship Philbert and I still share, despite our loyalties in this war. No, we can only hope their reactions do not incite a riot within our ranks, or any attempts at facing the Templars themselves.” He knew Gustave was right, though that’s not to say he wouldn’t still try to get his point across once they arrived at HQ. He had a feeling, however, that things would go very awry, as such things tended to these days. He prayed to whatever was out there that his mentor was wrong.

 

    Whipping the reigns, the carriage took off, and in a few minutes, they had arrived at the Assassins’ Headquarters. It lay under a beautiful Catholic Church with many underground passages that led to different parts of the city. Leaving the carriage a street away, they strolled into the back of the church, evading anyone that might accidentally come across them. They found themselves in a lone backroom, pushing aside the statue of a weeping angel with flared wings to reveal a dark passageway, a few lit torches on the walls ahead. Grabbing one, Erik led the way, Gustave and Madame Giry not far behind him, their brief travel silent and solemn, the only sounds heard being their footsteps echoing off the stone walls around them and the flickering of the torch’s flame. Replacing the torch on the wall at their journey’s end, he exchanged a look of uncertainty with Madame Giry, who didn’t look or feel any more confident in the situation than he did, before continuing on.

 

    Pushing open a set of heavy doors, they emerged from the passageway into an open hall, a stone staircase on both sides leading up into a war room while a hallway led into the rest of the headquarters. The walls and floor were a pale colored stone, the assassins’ symbol carved into the center of the hall and painted scarlet. Light filtered into the headquarters through a stained glass ceiling, lit candles providing illumination when night fell upon the city. Had they walked down the hallway, they would’ve come across a myriad of different rooms: living quarters, washrooms, training rooms, workshops, a smithing room, a treasury, a mess hall/kitchen, libraries, artifact rooms, art rooms, etc.     

 

    A quarrel could be heard upstairs and whispers began as young assassins emerged from rooms upon their arrival. Choruses of, “Mentor!” and “Madame!” went around, as well as a few exclamations of, “It’s the Phantom!” The three tried to gauge the severity of the argument they were beginning to be able to make out, hearing the shouts of two of their other four council members. Erik gestured for Madame Giry to go first and for Gustave to follow her while he took the rear. They made their way up the stairs, not bothering to knock as they entered the war room. The carpeted room, not usually this full, could barely contain its current occupants. Elaborately carved wooden furniture had been knocked over or shoved to the side, the usually organized map table and writing desks messy from the many pairs of hands unknowingly strewing papers about, a few books fallen from shelves absorbing the impact of someone being pushed back.

 

    On one side of the room stood an irate Talion Labelle, flanked by a group of rather furious looking assassins, all of which were shouting and barely holding themselves back from the others across the room. On the other stood an equally irate Pierre Levesque, who was flanked by a smaller, but just as furious, group of assassins who glared and shouted back across the room. Attempting to calm their fellow two master assassins were Marie Rosier and Eloise Delcour, while Nadir Khan stood in a corner of the room close to the room’s entrance.

 

    Nadir was the first to notice the arrival of their mentor, bowing slightly to him and giving his greetings to Madame Giry and Erik. Erik joined Nadir’s side while Madame Giry and Gustave continued forward. “Gentlemen! Ladies!” Madame Giry interrupted, pitching her voice to carry over the chaos going on around them. The arguing died down immensely as they turned their attention to her. “May I present Monsieur Daae, healthy and alive,” she addressed them, stepping to the side to let Gustave through. The volume in the room swelled once again as he stepped forward, attempting to once again calm the crowd. Erik turned to Nadir.

 

    “What has happened in my absence, Daroga?” he questioned. Nadir shook his head with a sigh.

 

    “When Madame Giry arrived with word of Monsieur Daae’s condition and his current whereabouts Monsieurs Labelle and Levesque were… upset with the news. They demanded that I go and retrieve him, by force if I had to, from your “clutches”. I told them I would do no such thing as he was in the safest pair of hands possible. Unfortunately, that did nothing but fuel their anger, and rumors began circulating about the circumstances that led to his poisoning. Labelle and a sizeable group of our ranks wish to launch full scale attacks at the nearest Templar strongholds while Levesque and the rest of our ranks thought it best to work in the shadows, gain intel and strike whenever their guard is down. But—

 

    “Now is not the time to play peacekeeper, Nadir,” Erik growled, already sensing what his next statement would be. “We cannot just sit idly by and let them get away with this!”

 

    “Then you would risk shattering this albeit fragile peace between our groups? You would risk undoing all of Monsieur Daae’s hard work, negating our truce, because of a personal vendetta? Believe me, Erik, I would love nothing more than to see Philbert de Chagny meet the end he deserves, but there must be a safer way to go about this!”

 

    “What do you suggest we do then? Shall we negotiate some more? Shall we lay down our arms and fall on our swords?”

 

    “You know that is not what I meant,” Nadir responded. “All I’m saying is that attacking without being fully informed of the situation is a disastrous idea. We need to get to the bottom of the situation; only then will we be able to plan accordingly and strike when and where it hurts the most. No innocents harmed, no Templar plots furthered because of our recklessness and impatience.” Erik knew that was their safest course of action, but he didn’t think the rest of the Brotherhood would agree. Delcour and Rosier may be the sensible ones, but Labelle and Levesque would surely not stand for it. Speaking of…

 

    “You cannot expect us to believe you!” Labelle exclaimed when Gustave finished recounting his last encounter with Philbert de Chagny. “Your poison addled mind is not a credible source of information.”

 

    “With no disrespect, mentor, I must, unfortunately, agree,” Levesque chimed in.

 

    “And as trustworthy as you are, we cannot disregard your personal connections to our enemy. As much as I’d like to believe you, how do we know you’re not trying to protect him?” Rosier questioned. The rest of them turned their attention to Delcour, who seemed lost in thought, eyes hazy and glowing slightly blue. She quickly came out of her daze, silently observing Gustave before nodding to him and going to stand by his side.

 

    “He speaks the truth,” she told them quietly. They all groaned at her statement, but many protests died down. Seer, witch, diviner, whatever people liked to call her, Eloise Delcour was a woman of few words, wise beyond her years, and never once wrong thus far in her visions of the future, an extended power of her Eagle Vision.

 

    “Regardless, we can no longer allow the Templars to have free reign of Paris. We must take the fight to them since they’ve quite clearly no intention of affording us respect any longer,” Labelle declared, then turning to address Gustave directly. “And you are but one man who would try to stop an army of the world’s finest assassins.” Erik and Nadir stepped up to stand beside Gustave at that statement, and though Labelle paled at Erik’s close proximity, he continued. “Three against an army are no better odds,” he finished rather weakly as Erik scowled.

 

    “You underestimate us, Labelle, and there will come a day where you will answer for it,” Erik warned.

 

    “ _Gentlemen,_ ” Gustave reprimanded, and they both fell silent. He sighed, pressing his hands into his eyes as he came to a decision, making eye contact with everyone around the room. “Though I do not like it, I do agree that we can no longer refuse to take action. I’m clearly outnumbered on this matter. Therefore, Monsieur Levesque,” he addressed reluctantly, “We shall go forward with your suggestions. We send out parties to gather as much information as possible, and when we have all we need and the time is right… We shall strike a crippling blow to our enemies.” Not everyone was completely satisfied with that answer, but the quarreling groups dispersed and exited the war room while Madame Giry, Erik, and the Council remained.

 

    Madame Rosier shook her head, commenting, “I sometimes wonder how we’ve managed to survive for this long.” Gustave chuckled sadly in response, collapsing in the nearest upright seat.

 

    “As do I, Marie. As do I.”

 

XxX

 

    Madame Giry leapt back as a sword came arcing through the air, barely missing her chest. A dagger she kept on her person slid into her hand with ease, though it had been quite some time since she’d had to use it. The templar before her didn’t seem to take her seriously, twirling his sword with boredom as she kept her distance, waiting for him to make the first move. When his patience finally ran out, he charged her, thrusting and missing as she sidestepped him and brought her dagger up. In one swift movement it was lodged in his throat, and she heard a gasp and gurgling as she pulled it out. His body fell to the floor, blood pooling underneath him. Shaking slightly, the dagger clattered to the ground as it fell from her hands. She had never been overly comfortable with killing to begin with and that hadn’t changed. She quickly made her way over to a desk piled with papers, searching for a specifically sealed letter that was to be delivered to a templar outpost in London. What caught her eye, however, was a sealed letter addressed to Gustave, and she opened it, curiosity getting the better of her.

 

     _I’m impressed that you’ve made it this far, assassin. To be reading this you must be very lucky or very foolish, perhaps a bit of both. I must, however, congratulate you on being much smarter than we anticipated, though you will not have long to celebrate this minor victory. The poison still running in your veins is only the first step in dismantling your pathetic brotherhood. Should you live long enough to see the beginning of its fall, just know that the hand penning this message is the same hand responsible for your undoing. I look forward to our final encounter._

 

_Oh, and give my regards to your daughter._

 

    Madame Giry felt her heart stop momentarily as it sunk in that whoever had attempted to murder Gustave knew much more than any of them thought. She especially paled at the mention of Christine. Snatching up the letter and stowing it away on her person, she went and picked up her dagger from where she’d dropped it, slipping it into one of her boots as she swiftly exited the room, heading back towards the front of the templar hideout they had infiltrated.

 

    It had been several months since the attempt on Gustave’s life, and the brotherhood had gathered more than enough information about where the Templars planned to strike next, their powerful contacts throughout the city, where and how they were moving their resources, and, most importantly, when all of their most important members would be gathered, vulnerable and easy targets. In a few days time, there was to be a convening of the Templar Order leaders in the heart of Paris, and that was when they would strike. That, however, was not worrying her so much as the sight of Gustave being half carried through the hall of the Templar hideout by an exhausted looking Erik.

 

     _“Mon Dieu!_ Erik, what—

 

    “No time! Run!” he yelled to her, now picking Gustave up in his arms and sprinting for the exit, Madame Giry not far behind him. They made their way back to their carriage in record time, and Erik was hit with a horrifying sense of deja vu. This time, however, he had more than one life in his hands, and no antidote was going to be able to help that poison. “The door,” Erik told her urgently. She ran ahead of him, holding it open to allow him to set an unresponsive Gustave down gently on one of the seats. She quickly joined his side and Erik slammed the door shut, quickly hopping up to take the reigns. The carriage jolted as the horses set off, the vivace beat of their hooves and the blur of scenery in the window reassuring signs that they were moving. Gustave’s eyes were unfocused and his skin was hot to the touch. She gently took one of his hands, silently hoping that they’d get back to Paris soon, when, without warning, Gustave fell unconscious.

 

    “Gustave!” she screamed in alarm, unable to keep her panic at bay. If possible, the carriage shook hard as the horses raced even faster back to Paris, hooves thundering down their current path. She couldn’t lose her beloved friend. Not like this.

 

XxX

 

    Gustave didn’t know where he was at the moment, only that Madame Giry was at his side, at the edge of his peripheral vision. The mission had gone disastrously. Against the wishes of virtually the entire brotherhood, he had decided to take part in the last mission before the big Templar meeting was to take place. It wasn’t just that they didn’t want their leader to put himself in danger unnecessarily, however. Gustave’s health over the last few months had been steadily declining, and everyone seemed to notice except for him. He stubbornly and repeatedly insisted that he was fine and no one was brave enough to tell him otherwise. No one, it seemed, except Christine, who could be just as stubborn as her father at times.

 

    “Papa, please don’t go! You’re sick! Stay home and get better first!” Christine pleaded to her father when he told her he had to leave her for work, clinging to his arm in desperation. “Please don’t leave!”

 

    “Papa has important people he needs to meet with,” he told her softly. “I promise I’ll be back as soon as I can afterwards.” He crouched down to her level and pulled her gently to him. She wrapped her arms around him, tears threatening to spill.

 

    “Do you have to go, even if you’re sick?”

 

    “Even if I’m sick,” he replied. “There are people who depend on me, Christine. I could never forgive myself if something happened to you or them because I didn’t do my job.” She sniffled resignedly.

 

    “A-And you’ll be safe?” Christine asked him shakily. He pressed a kiss into her hair as he pulled back with a sad smile.

 

    “Of course.” A few hours and a mission briefing later found him at the center of a heated debate between the Council, all of whom were adamant that he not join the mission to the last unscouted Templar stronghold in the city.

 

    “Mentor, this is madness!”

 

    “You can’t possibly think that we’ll allow you to do such a thing!”

 

    “It’s reckless, irresponsible!”

 

    “You’ll be putting yourself in unnecessary danger!”

 

    “It cannot be helped,” Madame Delcour uttered sadly. “It must happen so that the chain of future events can properly take place.”

 

    “Oh, not another one of your _visions,_ ” Monsieur Labelle griped. “If you’re so all seeing and powerful, why don’t you tell us how we win this God forsaken war?”

 

    “I cannot see that far into the future, nor can I control when I receive my visions. I am not some tool to be used to your ends,” she told him cooly, the most they’d heard her speak in quite some time. He seemed taken aback at her sudden demeanor change, but made no other comments. “Monsieur Daae must go,” she stated before her gaze fell upon Erik. “And there he will decide the future of the brotherhood.” Gustave followed her gaze to a perplexed Erik, who looked a bit uncomfortable when more stares followed. Gustave cleared his throat, holding back a coughing fit and regaining their attention.

 

    “I am going,” he declared with a tone of finality, “And nothing you say or do will sway me in my decision.” He heard the sighs of everyone else in the room before a chorus of reluctant _yes, mentor’_ s rang out in the room. Gustave quickly left the room followed closely behind by Erik. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs as a coughing fit finally came over him. Covering his mouth with his hand, he paled when he pulled it back to see specks of blood. Erik grabbed his hand before he could do anything about it, eyes wide when Gustave met his worried gaze.

 

    “Mentor—

 

    “Not here,” Gustave told him in a hushed voice, leading them back through the tunnels. “I don’t want anyone besides you and Antoinette to know.”

 

    “But what—

 

    “I promise I’ll explain when we get there.” Erik bit back an argument before nodding in defeat.

 

    “Very well.” They emerged within the church at the beginning of the passageway, making their way outside as the sun began to set. The first half of the ride there was uncomfortably silent, with Erik almost lost in thought as he drove the carriage, Gustave trying not to react to Madame Giry’s occasional staring. When he felt her gaze land on him once again he sighed, finally meeting her concerned eyes.

 

    “They’re worried about you. We all are,” she told him.

 

    “I know… The Council thinks I am in denial about my health, that I’m going on every mission to prove that I’m still useful and not a burden to the brotherhood.” He shook his head, looking away. “They’re wrong. I am well aware of my failing health, and I uphold my duties as an assassin in the field not because I have something to prove, but because I will not let my sickness lead to more lives lost and Templar plans followed through.” He looked her in the eye and told her plainly, “I am dying, Antoinette, and my time draws short. When I am gone—

 

    “Gustave, don’t speak like that. There’s still time to—

 

    “Not even Erik’s brilliance can help me now, I’m afraid,” he interrupted. She looked ready to protest, but he continued before she could. “I bring up the subject not to sadden you or prepare you for that moment. I need to ask some things of you.” He couldn’t help but notice the sorrow that filled her as she gestured for him to continue. “You are one of my dearest friends, Antoinette, and I trust you with my life and the life of my daughter. Christine and Meg are practically sisters, after all,” he stated with a small smile. “Will you watch after her for me, see that she grows up to be a strong and beautiful young woman?”

 

    “Of course. I would do anything for Christine, and I promise she will never want for anything,” she replied heartfeltly and without hesitation. Gustave let out a relieved breath.

 

    “Thank you. There is one more thing.” At this he was nervous. He’d had a lot of time to think, about his life with the assassins, and when he realized that they would be short a Council member soon, he knew exactly who he would ask to take his place. “When I am gone, there will be no leader for the Council, and while the position would usually fall to the next highest ranking Council member… I have decided to choose someone else.” Madame Giry’s breath caught in her throat when she realized what he was saying. “Erik will be in a dark place after my passing. He and the Council don’t get along, and he will hate my decision, become a shadow of himself and perhaps make rash and dangerous choices… You are the only other person who can get through to him, be there for him when he’s at his lowest. I know that it’s a lot to ask, but—

 

    “I would never leave Erik to suffer alone, and while I am not as experienced in assassin matters as the two of you I will do my best to be there for him however I can,” she told him with great resolve, taking his hand and squeezing it in comfort. He squeezed back in gratitude as the carriage came to a stop. Erik hopped down from the driver’s seat and opened the door, helping Madame Giry out first before offering a hand to Gustave, who politely declined the help. After quickly going over the plan they’d established back at HQ they went their separate ways, Madame Giry remaining in the wing closest to the front entrance while Erik and Gustave headed further into the stronghold. Forgoing stealth, the two marched confidently down the hall, alert and wary, Erik glancing over at Gustave occasionally.

 

    “I suppose you’d like that explanation now?” Gustave asked as they exited yet another room, as empty and informationless as the last.    

 

    “If you are willing to give it,” Erik responded. Gustave sighed as they made it to the end of the hall, turning the corner… Right into a group of armed Templars, who instantly drew their weapons. Gustave and Erik shared knowing looks and slight smiles as they drew their own. Perfectly in sync with one another, they descended upon their foes, effortlessly maneuvering around the other, not a single swing, shot, or throw wasted, almost as if battle was a well rehearsed dance for them. The commotion, obviously, drew the attention of more on duty Templars, but the two of them welcomed the challenge.

 

    “Ever since that night,” Gustave began, dodging a particularly powerful sword swing, hidden blades slitting the throat of the poor soul who’d done so, “My immune system has been awful. At first, there were the head colds—” As he leapt back from another sword swing, Erik was in his previous position in the blink of an eye, his sword plunging into that Templar’s gut. “The occasional fever, coughs and headaches, nothing overly serious.”

 

    “And the blood from earlier?” Erik questioned, avoiding a nasty looking greatsword as Gustave deflected a dagger swipe with his hidden blades.   

 

    “Recent, something that only started a few days ago.” Upsetting his attacker’s balance with a well placed kick, Gustave used his own dagger, sinking it into their chest; Erik saw another dagger go flying through the air in his peripheral vision as he did so, buried in a different templar’s back.

 

    “And the collapse?” Gustave grimaced, leaping back to sink his hidden blades into the throats of two Templars headed towards Erik.

 

    “That was **once** and that was because I hadn’t eaten much that day,” he insisted. Erik now had the last Templar, in the area at least, in hand, his punjab lasso wrapped tightly around their neck, their face red as they gasped. Erik pulled just a tiny bit tighter before hearing something crack, and he removed the lasso, allowing the body to fall to the ground.

 

    “You also couldn’t keep anything you ate down. It showed then and it shows now.” True, Gustave hadn’t been able to eat much that day, or that week, but eventually his eating started going back to normal. He was thinner now, but still lean and could more than hold his own.

 

    “It’s gotten better,” Gustave told him. Tossing a throwing knife up into the air before throwing it somewhere behind him, looking at Erik as he did so. Erik glanced over Gustave’s shoulder to see the knife embedded into a Templar’s skull as they crumpled to the ground.

 

    “You are still unwell,” Erik pointed out. “I… I worry for you.” Gustave gave him a reassuring look.

 

    “I know. Forgive me for giving the impression that I haven’t noticed or cared for my well being, my friend, but I cannot sit idly by at home and “recover” when there is work to be done and there are lives to be saved.” They continued on, their search for Philbert de Chagny’s sealed letter going no better than it had earlier. After yet another room full of useless papers, Erik finally let his frustration show.

 

    “It’s not here,” he growled, sweeping his hair out of his face. “Perhaps Antoinette has had better luck?”

 

    “She would have given us the signal,” Gustave told him, trying not to let his own beginning frustrations show, and trying to ignore the feeling in his gut that said something definitely wasn’t right here. Focusing, he called upon his Eagle Vision, the world taking on a muted color. Erik stood next to him in blue, but what caught his eye was the golden trail of footsteps out in the hallway. Erik followed Gustave’s gaze before activating his own Eagle Vision, and together the two followed the trail to the last room in that wing, a set of double doors before them. Inside the room were two people they knew very well. “Something doesn’t feel right,” Gustave told him as their vision returned to normal.

 

    “With those two, I would expect nothing different,” Erik relied simply. He went to push open the door, but Gustave stopped him.

 

    “Wait, Erik. There’s… There’s something I need to tell you before we continue.” He watched Erik look into his eyes, probably seeing the nervousness there as his expression softened a little. “I… When I’m gone, the brotherhood will need someone else to take my place. According to traditional rules, that would mean Marie, but… I have chosen someone else.”

 

    “Nadir?” Erik guessed, confused when Gustave shook his head.

 

    “No… You, Erik… I chose you.” Erik froze, eyes wide, gazing terrified and beyond confused at him. “I know what you’re going to say—

 

    “I—I don’t… We **will** discuss this when we return,” he told him, and Gustave could tell he was trying not to let his emotions at the moment interfere with their mission, and before Gustave could stop him, burst through the doors, drawing the attention of a startled Philbert and Philippe de Chagny.

 

    “Gustave?” Philbert asked, astonished. “I… I didn’t think you were healthy enough to—

 

    “I am more than healthy enough, I assure you,” he interrupted him. “Where’s the letter, Philbert?” he asked quietly. The confusion on his face was plain to see, and one look in his eyes told Gustave that his friend truly didn’t know what he was talking about.

 

    “What letter?”

 

    “Do not play games, de Chagny,” Erik growled. “The letter you’re sending to the brotherhood in England. Where is it?”

 

    “I—I only mentioned it recently to—How did you know about that?”

 

    “Answer the question,” Erik demanded, not bothering trying to keep the malice out of his voice.

 

    “Do not speak to my father that way, demon. You should be lucky we’re allowing you to talk at all. We could have Templars swarm this room with a single command,” Philippe hissed angrily, though his angry glare faltered when Erik directed his ire at him.

 

    “And if you were to try, you would meet the same fate as them: a brutal guaranteed death.”

 

    “Gentlemen,” Gustave addressed them, silencing the exchange. He then turned back to his friend. “Philbert, just give us the letter and we will leave. Involving them will only cause a national conflict, and I know neither of us wants that.”

 

    “Even if I had the letter I don’t think it would be that simple. Besides, I haven’t even _written_ it yet, much less sent it. I wasn’t even sure if I was going to.” Gustave paled at that statement, and he finally understood why he’d had that feeling earlier as he saw the concerned look on Philbert’s face and the narrow-eyed scowl on Philippe’s. They’d walked right into a trap, given false information and fooled, once again, into thinking that their mission would be an easy one. The paleness of his face wasn’t just because of his reaction, however. Gustave felt himself sway, much to Erik and Philbert’s alarm, and as Philbert laid a hand on Gustave’s shoulder, asking if he was alright, Gustave felt a shock wave of pain erupt throughout his body from the physical contact. It was only due to Erik’s quick thinking that Gustave ended up in his arms and not on the ground, and Philbert leapt back at the venomous glare Erik shot him.

 

    “What did you do to him?!” he questioned, outraged. Erik looked between a panicked Philbert and a shocked Philippe.

 

    “Th-The poison,” Gustave uttered weakly, flinching as another wave of pain hit him. The four were frozen as the words registered with him. It was then that Philbert did something completely unexpected.

 

    “Take him and go.” Erik looked to him in angry disbelief. It was Philippe’s turn to look outraged.

 

    “Father!” Philbert silenced his son with a look.

 

    “If you think—

 

    “According to the person who analyzed what little of the poison I could give them, Gustave should’ve died hours after the poison entered his system. I don’t know what you did that night, but you bought him this much time. If you can save him…” He shook his head, clearing his throat as his voice broke. “Reinforcements are on their way. If you leave now, you might just miss them.” Erik looked between the two before looking down at Gustave, who nodded.

 

    “Can you walk?”

 

    “Just barely.” The two de Chagny’s watched Erik throw Gustave’s arm around him, hoisting him to his feet and hurrying out of the room, carriages quickly approaching from the distance.

 

XxX

 

    Harsh, dissonant chords echoed throughout Erik’s home that night and the following day. Gustave had been a mumbling sweaty mess, running a dangerously high temperature and retching up anything that he tried to eat or drink. Angrily scribled sheet music lay scattered across a writing desk across the open area, several different bottles of the poison’s antidote lying on top of them. The antidotes, no matter how many times Erik adjusted their composition, seemed to become less and less effective with each dose. The antidote had managed to allow Gustave to keep down a bit of water and broth, but the fever and delirium remained.

 

    “How is he?” Madame Giry asked the next evening, having just dismissed her ballet dancers for dinner prior to her arrival. His hands slammed to a stop on a diminished chord, drawing a wince out of the both of them. With a frustrated sigh, Erik angrily swept aside a half notated piece of sheet music, scooting back from the organ.

 

    “He’s getting worse,” Erik told her quietly, getting to his feet and making his way to Gustave’s room and stopping at his bedside. Gustave lay unconscious, a pained look on his face, eyes shut, breaths shallow, lips moving wordlessly as he tossed and turned. “Nothing I do is helping him.” Madame Giry remained in the doorway, watching as Erik stood, trembling, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. It wasn’t until Erik suddenly stood still that she grew concerned. Slowly, Erik brought a hand to his face, drawing it back to find a tear glistening on his fingertips. Neither of them dared breathe until the hand started shaking violently, a broken, _“No,”_ escaping Erik’s lips. Without warning he upended one of the tables in the room, sending papers, glass shards, and splintered wood scattering across the floor. Blinded by devastation, by anger, at both himself and the world, he demolished anything within sight: furniture, medical supplies, books, decorations.

 

    “Erik!” Madame Giry screamed as he shouted in agony, splinters and glass shards embedding themselves into his hands as he crushed what used to be a picture frame against the wall. With hardly anything left to break, he turned his emotions against the wall, knuckles bruising and bloodying until Madame Giry, with adrenaline fueled strength, painfully wrenched an arm behind his back, sweeping his feet out from under him so she could pin him to a safe, destruction free area of floor, weakly thrashing and crying out obscenities in French and Persian below her. She hushed him gently as he grew still and quieted. _“*_ _Être en paix, petit frère,”_ she whispered as he choked back a sob. She released him when he took a deep breath, going limp. Slowly, she let him go, and he got gingerly to his feet, cradling the hand that got the worst of his anger with a hiss. Madame Giry sighed, spotting the somewhat intact medical kit lying halfway across the room, carefully making her way over to it and back, nursing Erik’s wounds with sad eyes.

 

    “I know that he means everything to you,” she began quietly once his hands were as patched up as she could make them, “But destroying your beautiful home will not help him, and it will not change that his time is drawing to a close, Erik. He is one of my dearest friends, and the thought of losing him…” She cut herself off as she felt her eyes water, trying to remain strong, trying to hold herself together even as she and Erik fell apart together. He couldn’t meet her eyes.

 

    “I do not know if I have the strength to go on, without him. What am I to do when the person who… Who accepted me for who I was, who took me in and gave my life meaning, who saved me from myself… What am I to do without him?” She tipped his chin up gently, gazing into his crestfallen icy blue eyes.

 

    “You keep fighting,” she told him. “You fight to keep his vision, his legacy, alive. You _fight_ to keep the innocent lives of France from the Templar’s rule. You **fight** … You fight for everything he stands for and everything he did for this world.” Erik nodded, not resisting as she pulled him into her arms for the second time in recent memory, burying his head in her shoulder as more tears came, letting himself break for just that once.

 

XxX

 

    Christine ran as fast as her legs could carry her, ignoring the tears prickling at the back of her eyes at the rumors that had spread across the opera house. Her father, suffering on his deathbed? Why had no one told her? Why had she been kept in the dark about this? Sliding around a corner she finally came to a halt outside of an ajar door, hushed conversation taking place. She could make out Madame Giry and her father’s voices, but then she heard two unfamiliar ones. Without thought she burst through the door, startling everyone in the room. Madame Giry visibly paled as she caught sight of Christine, and Christine saw her and two other men gathered around her father’s bedside.

 

    “Papa!” Christine screamed in alarm, rushing over to his side before anyone could stop her. Gustave turned to face her, looking as if he were fighting for every breath until he caught her eyes, a weak smile on his lips.

 

    “Christine. You’re here…”

 

    “Oh, papa! You can’t die like this! You can’t leave me! Please don’t go! Please!” she shouted hysterically, grabbing onto one of his hands.

 

    “Christine,” Madame Giry began, but she paid her no mind as Gustave spoke to her.

 

    “It’s alright. It won’t be long until I see your mother again. I’ll get to tell her what a sweet, strong girl you became, how proud of you I am…”

 

    “What about all the dreams we had? Traveling the world together, making music for everyone to hear, playing while I sang…” Christine couldn’t help the tears now streaming down her face.

 

    “Not all dreams come true, Christine… But that doesn’t mean you can’t make the most of them. When I’m in heaven, child, I will send the Angel of Music to you. Together, the two of you can live out every one of your dreams, and I’ll be able to watch them happen from above.”

 

    “D-Do you promise?”

 

    “I promise, Christine.” He squeezed her hand as best he could. “I love you, Christine, and I know that you’ll grow up to do wonderful things, more wonderful than you can imagine.”

 

    She held his gaze as he struggled to hold on, and with his last breath she managed to tell him, “I love you too, papa,” before she collapsed in a heap, unable to hold back the cries and sobs. Madame Giry was instantly at her side, holding her close as she too cried for the loss of someone close to her heart. Nadir had a hand on Erik’s shoulder, tears running down his face, worried for his friend. Erik looked down at the now lifeless hand still held in his, an emptiness emerging within him, temporarily overpowering his world-shattering grief.

 

    Christine broke free of Madame Giry’s grasp, getting to her feet as her father’s death finally seemed to truly sink in. She was alone. She was completely and utterly alone. No more violin playing or stories about heroes hidden in the shadows or the Angel of Music, nor any kisses goodnight or road trips to performances. She was left there at the Opera Populaire with no family left. Her head swiveled and her eyes swept the room as she suddenly felt trapped in a world not fit for a lonely child. Nadir’s eyes were sympathetic, gazing at her sadly and sharing her pain. Madame Giry looked to her with grief and concern. And Erik… Erik, feeling just as devastated and alone as she was, too out of it to remember he wasn’t wearing his mask, looked up and met her eyes. She didn’t flinch or recoil at the sight of his face. Being her father’s daughter, she simply couldn’t bring herself to feel disgusted or afraid. A silent understanding passed between them, and as Christine ran from the room with no destination in mind Erik slipped from Nadir’s grasp, disappearing into the shadows and through a door hidden in the wall. Madame Giry and Nadir look to each other, bewildered, before their gazes fall back on Gustave, sharing their grief once more.

 

XxX

 

    Christine found herself in the chapel when she once again collapsed in grief. Her sobs echoed around the room, and she cried herself to sleep, curled into herself and shaking. The few days Christine avoided as many people as she could, sneaking into the kitchens for food when hunger gnawed at her. It was in the middle of the night when Madame Giry finally caught her, worrying over Christine furiously. “Where have you been, Christine? I’ve been worried sick!” She received no reply and sighed, leading Christine to a spare room where she could sleep. Christine remained in her room during the day then, not speaking to anyone, not even Meg, who tried her best to cheer her up in whatever way she could think of. She still went back to the chapel every night, now lighting a candle as she spoke to her father. It was the eighth night after Gustave’s death that she found she was not alone, not anymore.   

 

    “I miss you, papa. I feel so alone without you here. You were everything I had. Now…” She wiped away one of her tears, willing herself not to break down again. “I don’t have anyone…” There was a beat of silence before a voice, more beautiful than anything she’d heard before, echoed softly around her.

 

     _“Christine. Christine…”_ She gasped, looking around the room for the source of the singing.

 

    “W-Who’s there?” Erik lurked behind a false panel in the wall, looking to Christine with tears in his eyes, clothes rumpled, maskless, exhausted. The last eight days had been the worst eight days of his life, and **that** was saying something after everything he’d been through in his life. It dawned on him that she felt as he did, but for her Gustave had been her father, her world. How could he leave her to suffer through his loss alone? It was then that some of Gustave’s last words echoed in his mind, and he made his decision.

 

     _“I am your angel of music,”_ he sang to her softly. She gasped again, but this time a shy smile accompanied it. That was then that Erik knew he made the right choice. “You are not alone, Christine,” he told her adamantly.

 

    “Angel,” she whispered in wonder. Her father had kept his promise. Her angel was here! For the first time in eight days, Christine felt a spark within her. Perhaps not all hope was lost after all.

 

Closing A/N: Apologies for any historical inaccuracies or misused French (Google Translate is my friend here). Also, I’m taking a few liberties with how the Assassin’s Creed universe works and character backstories, so… Yeah. Everything will eventually be explained. For Erik’s Assassin outfit, think the Executioner’s Outfit from Unity in black with a dark leather hood and dark leather boots, the belt that goes with the outfit, except the buckle is in the shape of the Assassins symbol, and his black cape, the Assassin’s symbol outlined in silver on the front, with a deep red underside. Also, I wrote this envisioning it as you would the opening to an Assassin’s Creed game, so… It ended up being pretty long, longer than I originally intended, but I hope it sets up an understanding of the AU I’m trying to establish. Thank you for reading this far, and I’ll hopefully see you guys when I start regularly updating!   

**Author's Note:**

> vieil ami: old friend  
> mon dieu: my god  
> etre en paix, petit frere: be at peace, little brother
> 
> Anyone who actually knows French, please correct me if I'm wrong!


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